


Your Early Morning Company

by coricomile



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M, Shaving, Slice of Life, Straight Razors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 10:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3171293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bloody Jack. He would make a daily chore into something sex-ridden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Early Morning Company

Ianto wiped at the fogged mirror with the side of his hand. He squinted at his reflection, damp and dark and still a little blurry from steam. The washroom was dim, no windows this far below ground, but it would do. He thumbed the stubbled line of his jaw and pulled a disposable razor from the pack in the cabinet. 

He didn’t know when he’d bullied himself into Jack’s space. His razors, his aftershave and spare toothbrush mixed in with Jack’s. Two suits hung neatly in the closet, pressed between Jack’s shirts and trousers. Somewhere in the mess, Ianto had left an unfinished novel. 

It was almost pitifully domestic. 

There had been no awkward exchange of keys, no stuttered words of responsibility and next steps. The spare key to Ianto’s flat had been handed over on his first day, and anyone who had access to the Hub had access to Jack’s bunker. Even in his home, Jack was nothing but an open door. 

With a dull pang, Ianto remembered Lisa giving him her spare. She’d smiled and presented it to him at the end of dinner, a little flash of silver over the darkness of her fingers. In that moment, he’d thought about how much he loved her, how much he wanted to wake up to her and fall asleep beside her. The key still hung on the ring next to the ones for the tourist office and the garage and his own flat. 

Sometimes, he thought about using it, about seeing if the place she’d lived had been invaded by a new woman that would never live up to the person Lisa had been. 

Ianto rubbed a hand over his face and shook his head. He needed a quick cup of coffee and a danish. Something high in sugar and low in nutritional value. Maybe he’d go to the bakery down the bay, grab sweets for the team before they got in. God knew Jack would be pleased. 

“You get a better shave with a straight razor,” Jack said. He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest and head tilted. His pants rode low on his hips, white and fitted in a way that Ianto suspected was entirely intentional. 

“Not all of us were raised before the time of plastic,” Ianto said, wetting the disposable in the sink. He reached for the shave gel at the edge of the shower, but Jack stepped in behind him, folding him into his arms. 

They were the same height, and though Jack was built broader, Ianto carried almost the same strength. Even so, wrapped up like this, Ianto felt small. Childlike. He wondered if Jack felt the same way when he was held, or if he was always carrying his age with him. 

“Coffee,” Ianto said, tipping his head back against Jack’s shoulder. “ _Pastries_. Some of the wonderful things you can have if you leave me alone for a moment.”

“Tempting,” Jack said, mouth pressed to the damp nape of Ianto’s neck. He rubbed his thumb over the edge of the towel wrapped around Ianto’s waist. “I have a shave kit, if you want to give it a go.”

“Oh, yes. I’d love to start the morning by slitting my throat.” Ianto closed his eyes, letting the brush of Jack’s chest against his back cool his skin. He’d move in a moment. 

“I could do it for you,” Jack said. He kissed the soft spot behind Ianto’s ear, the curve of his neck. 

“Yes, much better to die at the hands of someone else,” Ianto said dryly. Jack pinched his side, and Ianto manfully bit back a squeal of indignance. 

“I’ll have you know, I’ve been using a straight razor for decades and have not once done any damage.” He flattened his palm against Ianto’s stomach, pulling him in closer. It felt a bit like dancing. “Let me.”

“Alright,” Ianto said after a moment. Not that it mattered. He always said yes to Jack in the end. It was the flaw the would probably get him killed. Possibly in minutes. He felt Jack’s grin against his neck.

When Jack disappeared back into his room, Ianto put away the disposable razor and retightened the knot in his towel. He stopped the sink, filled it, and looked in the mirror. Maybe he could go in with a bit of stubble. Wasn’t like Owen was always clean shaven. He grimaced. Perhaps that wasn’t the best example. 

Jack returned a moment later, cradling an old fashioned travel kit in his hands. He looked positively gleeful. It really was the small things, Ianto thought with a wry smile. All of Torchwood at his feet, and he was more pleased with offices and straight razors. 

The kit was a thin leather affair, tied with three neat buckles. The leather was grayed with age, cracks showing through the skin. Ianto knew that if he reached out to touch it would be butter soft under his fingers. Jack undid the buckles and unrolled it, careful like he was handling an artefact. 

In a way he was, Ianto thought. The thing was a few good decades older than he was, at the very least. 

Each item was held in place by a thin strap, the same faded leather wrapping around brush and soap tin and strop and folded razor. Jack caressed them each in turn, eyes far off. Ianto wondered if he’d used this in the wars he’d fought, if he’d been here before with another man. Jealousy was an unbecoming emotion that Ianto had yet to learn to let go of. 

Jack hung the strop, a thick thing made of a darker leather, on the door knob. Its handle knocked limply against the door. Ianto wanted to make a joke about it, but felt that it would be almost too easy. 

“Don’t have a proper mug,” Jack said apologetically, tipping the shave soap out of its tin. It was half worn through, a dip in the center of its yellow little body. “Lost it in the sixties. Kept it through a war, but two years of flower power sent it straight out to the depths of who knows where.”

“I’ll be looking for the photos of you in bellbottoms,” Ianto warned fondly. 

“I much preferred the mod look,” Jack sniffed. He wet the end of the brush and swirled it around the soap cupped in the palm of his hand. When it lathered, he curled his arm around Ianto’s shoulder and brushed it across his cheek. The bristles tickled against his skin, but Ianto held still.

“That might be worse.” Ianto turned his head when Jack prodded his cheek and then dutifully tipped it back. The man staring back at him in the mirror looked ridiculous, but that was nothing new. 

“I admit it wasn’t my best decade.” Jack rinsed the brush and tipped the soap back into its tin. He wiped his hands against Ianto’s hips, dragging his towel down. Ianto narrowed his eyes and hitched it back up. “Turn.”

Ianto did a shuffling about face and leaned back against the sink. Jack picked up the razor and flipped it open like a switchblade. Ianto swallowed and glanced at the shower. At least if he ended up bleeding all over the floor, there would be a quick way to clean it all up. 

He’d seen Jack kill things with less deadly instruments. True, he’d also seen Jack dismantle finicky technology with delicate fingers and cooing, barely audible words. It didn’t quite quell the tremor of fear clawing its way up his belly and into his chest. 

“I expected something a bit more ornate,” Ianto said, nodding at the plain wooden handle. The grain had been smoothed into a solid shade of gray brown from oils in Jack’s palm and friction. The blade itself shone bright silver, still clearly taken care of. Ianto had never seen Jack use it, let alone clean it. 

“Military issue,” Jack said, gripping the handle of the strop. He laid the edge of the blade against it and looked up. “Though if you’re interested, I do know a shop-”

“I’ll pass, thanks.” Ianto watched Jack’s hand as he honed the blade. The speed at which he did it- down over the leather, quick flip of fingers, back up, another flip- was both alarming and soothing. 

“Spoilsport.” Jack lifted the razor, squinting his eyes as he examined the edge. Ianto could see his own worried face reflected in it. “Trust me?”

“Regretting every second of it,” Ianto said. Still, he stood straighter when Jack closed the distance between them. Jack grinned. 

“Bet you say that to all the boys with the knives. Now, shush.” He laid the edge of the blade in a straight line against the end of Ianto’s sideburn. Ianto held his breath as Jack placed the thumb of his free hand against his temple and stretched the skin. 

The first stroke against his skin was smooth and short, nothing but a glancing pass of steel. Ianto breathed slowly through his nose. His heart stuttered in his chest as Jack repeated it across his cheek, short quick strokes. The rasp of it slicing through his stubble sounded like a roar in his ears.

Jack’s thumb moved to the soft spot under his cheekbone, the blade moving down to his jaw. Ianto wished they were turned the other way. He wanted to see, wanted to track the progression of the razor, but all he could catch were quick flashes of silver. It was maddening. 

Jack rinsed it in the sink and turned Ianto’s head to the other side. He repeated the process- edge of blade against his sideburn, short stroke across his cheek- and Ianto fought the urge to chew at his lip. 

He wasn’t used to having this much of anyone’s attention on him at once, let alone Jack’s. Jack was a creature that lived in his head, thoughts sporadic and fleeting. It was something Ianto had grown to enjoy about him. They had their tresspasses, but Jack had seen the literal end of the world. Squabbling over the covers wasn’t even as worrying as a mosquito bite. 

“Moustache,” Jack said. Ianto pulled his top lip in and tilted his head up. The tip of the razor flicked at the hair above it, tickling faintly. Oh, god, he was going to sneeze, and Jack was going to slice his nose clean off. 

Jack’s fingers held his jaw in place. Ianto took the time to study the lines in his face, the reminders of time. He didn’t know how far apart in age they really were. Jack didn’t seem to know properly, either. Right then, he was the young thing on the older man’s arm. In a few short years, it would be the other way around. 

“Chin.” Jack ran his thumb over Ianto’s lower lip and Ianto dutifully tucked it in. The blade glided smoothly under it, cool despite the contact with his skin. Jack used the heel of it across the rounded point of Ianto’s chin, eyebrows drawn and mouth open. 

The first time Ianto had shaved, thirteen and barely sporting peach fuzz, he’d nicked himself right there. The thing had bled something awful, eating through the wadded sheets of toilet paper he’d pressed against it. He had a scar from it, unnoticeable if you didn’t know to look. He kept waiting for the skip of the blade to slice him open, but it never came. 

“Head back,” Jack said softly. Ianto closed his eyes and did as he was told. 

The flat of the blade slid down over his adam’s apple and Ianto clutched at the sink. He heard the splash of water as Jack cleared it off, and then it was back on him again, running against the left side of his throat. His cock swelled under his towel, fear sliding slowly into arousal. Bloody Jack. He would make a daily chore into something sex-ridden. 

Jack’s thumb caressed his collarbone as he did the other side, his breathing slow and even. 

“All done,” Jack said, rinsing the razor in the sink. He closed it with a sharp click and placed it back in its pouch. Smiling smugly, he reached past Ianto, their bare chests brushing together. It felt like electricity, everything suddenly too warm. Ianto smelled the familiar sandalwood and clover of his aftershave, and then Jack’s hand was on his jaw, spreading it across his skin. 

“That wasn’t so bad, now was it?” Jack ran his knuckles over Ianto’s cheek, soothing the sting. His eyes were dark, his teeth bared. 

“You’re awful,” Ianto said, lunging forward. Jack laughed, even as his back hit the wall. The strop bounced off the door, the handle thumping soundly. Jack was still smiling when Ianto kissed him, all tongue and teeth and fear energy built up inside of him. 

Ianto shoved his hands down into the back of Jack’s pants, palming the roundness of his ass and dragging him in. Their hips ground together and Ianto groaned. He felt ridiculous, shave soap still on the edges of his jaw, rutting against Jack like a teenager. 

As he began to sink to his knees, desperate, Jack’s wrist strap beeped. Jack slumped back against the wall and Ianto banged his head against the thick muscle of Jack’s thigh. He pressed the heel of his palm against his cock through his towel and swore. 

“Raincheck?” Jack asked with a tight smile, pulling his pants back up sullenly. He kissed the top of Ianto’s head and squeezed back out into the main room. 

“The world had better be ending,” Ianto mumbled as he pushed himself up to his feet. 

He unstopped the sink and inspected his face in the mirror. Not a single scratch, not a single patch of missed hair. He grinned despite himself. Maybe he’d have Jack teach him. Jack’s wrist strap beeped again and Ianto sighed. Later. After the aliens were gone. 

Until then, Jack could play barber all he wanted.


End file.
